


Five After Five On Sunday

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, But Don't Tell Anyone I Wrote Domestic Fluff, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Frottage, Funny, Kissing, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, Sharing Fantasies, pretty dirty, sort of cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4252056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Much as John likes Greg's kids, five after five o'clock on Sunday is his very favourite time of the week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five After Five On Sunday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FervidAsAFlame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FervidAsAFlame/gifts).



> Inspired by exchanging "Sadstrade becomes Gladstrade" domestic/fluffy headcanons with FervidAsAFlame on Twitter. I hope the dirty talk redeems the domesticity.

“Watch out, now,” John warned. He was standing with hands on hips beside Greg at the barbecue, while Greg turned marshmallows on sticks. “Oh. See that now? That’s on fire.”

Greg raised it and blew out the flames. “Yeah, I see that. Thanks.” He gave John an exasperated, affectionate look.

“Just trying to help.” John grinned widely, patted Greg high on his back.

Raising his voice, Greg said, “Hey, fellas, why not ask John about the army.”

The kids were lounging in plastic chairs, the older one—Michael, just turned 13—fiddling with his phone and the younger one—Jane, ten-going-on-thirty—methodically picking apart a bracelet made of thread (she’d fallen out with one of her gang; the telling of the tale over lunch had been epic and florid, full of bad grammar and every sentence ending with a demanding, “ _yeah_?”).

“D’ja ever kill anyone?” Michael piped up instantly, finger still swiping his phone’s screen, not looking up.

“Oi!” Greg protested. He shook the marshmallow-roasting stick in the boy’s direction. “None of that.”

“Sorry.” Half-hearted at best. John cleared his throat, went to join them at the table.

“I was a doctor in the army,” John clarified. “ _Saved_ people, mostly. But a few of them were in pretty rough shape. Do you know what an IED is?”

Jane flung herself backward in her chair dramatically. “Anyone famous?” she demanded. She was generally put out that she had never met anyone famous, that Greg seemed incapable of arranging for her to meet anyone famous, and—most grievous of all—that she herself was not famous.

“Yes, that floppy-haired singer you like—he was a soldier, did you know? Got a terrible splinter; it was horribly infected—“

She rolled her eyes. “ _Omigod_ , **_stop_**. Dad, tell him to stop.”

 “She started it,” John defended with a wide smile and a gesture of surrender, before Greg could discipline him. “No, but you know who else is a hero? Your dad. Did he tell you about the night on the moors?”

“I’m going inside,” Michael droned. “Bugs.”

“Me, too,” Jane said quickly. “Bring me one when they’re ready, Daddy.”

“What?” Greg pulled a typically put-out dad-face; as ever, the kids were foiling him and he was hapless in the face of it. Off she ran, and Greg started smashing sticky, blackened marshmallows atop jaggedly broken squares of chocolate and gingersnaps; Jane had read him the riot act and rolled her eyes that the biscuits were _ohmigod,_ _all wrong_.

John helped, shoving one little tower into his mouth and humming approval. With his mouth still half-full, he said, “She pulls out the ‘Daddy’ when she wants something, eh?”

“Yeah, but tell you the truth, it’s nice to hear it any way I can. They’re outgrowing me,” Greg said with a forlorn shrug. He covered the grill and they started to clear up what was left of lunch and the not-quite-right s’mores, carried it all inside like a pair of waiters balancing plates up their arms. In the kitchen, they set everything on the worktop, and John leaned against the inside corner; Greg took advantage and boxed him in. He touched the outer edge of John’s mouth with one blunt fingertip. “You’ve got a little—”

“Have I?”

“I’ll just—“

“ _Mm_.”

“Not in front of the children, please, we’re terribly impressionable.” Michael. He reached around Greg’s back to grab a marshmallow and a bit of chocolate; he left the biscuit.

“It’s general-audiences rated,” Greg defended.

Michael leaned against the doorframe, mouth stuffed and working, eyes still glued to his phone. “Can’t you just. . .why are you even still snogging? It’s gross; you’re both so _old_.”

John stood up straight. “Right. Now, tell me, Michael, would an old man—?”

Greg stuffed a left-behind biscuit into John’s mouth.

“Your mum’s coming to pick you up at five; go pack your bags. Tell your sister.”

Michael grunted—charming habit of the newly minted teenager—and slunk out of the kitchen. “Dad says you should pack our bags!”

Greg shook his head, but smiled, turned back to John and their arms went around each other’s waists.

“Much as I like them,” John said, tipping his head to indicate the kids’ rooms down the hall, “Five after five on Sunday is my absolute favourite time.”

Greg’s grin turned sly. “Uh-oh. Bit more, there. Let me—“ A quick flick of his tongue against the edge of John’s upper lip, and John’s hand found the back of his neck, pulled him in for a proper kiss, their lips parting and fitting together.

“OHMIGOD WHY?” Jane this time.

“Look,” Greg scolded with good-humoured exasperation. “I know it’s been a long time since you saw me kissing anyone—“

“Don’t _talk_ about it, ohmigod.” She put her forehead in her hand.

“—but I’m an adult and I’m entitled to kiss who I like, when I like, in my own house.”

“Can you not wait a quarter hour until Mum comes?” Jane whined. “I’m a kid and I’m entitled not to have to acknowledge that my parents get up to that behaviour.”

“Well your mother and I made you and your brother.” Greg was enjoying this. John was biting back a laugh. Even Jane was smiling despite her protestations. “So you know that this behaviour was got up to at least twice.”

“You _have to_ stop talking now,” Jane insisted.

John to the rescue. “If it really bothers you, I won’t kiss your dad while you’re around. But maybe you should wear bells, like cats, so we know you’re coming.”

“Ohmigod! Daddy! Can we get a cat? Please? Puh- _leeeeze_?”

“Ask your mother. John’s allergic.”

John was not allergic.

“Go on, go pack up. Don’t forget your swimming things, you’ve got that Girl Guides’ thing this week.” Greg gave her a gentle shove on the shoulder and she trudged out. “For whatever it’s worth,” he said to John, and started running the taps for the washing up. “They like you.”

“Do they?” John was chuffed.

“When I picked them up after school Friday they asked if you were coming out to dinner with us. Jane says that since I met you, I’m less grouchy.” He shrugged. “It was a couple of long, rough years. I admit I was short with them a lot.”

John rubbed his palm up and down Greg’s back. “Well, I’m glad they like me. And, yes. . .you were a bit of a grump for a while.”

“Noticed that, did you?”

“I liked you despite it—I asked you out, didn’t I? And I like you even more, now.”

They carried on with the washing up, Greg now and then calling out directions and reminders to the children, and when the car’s horn sounded he walked them to the door and told them he loved them. They hugged him without protest, smiling, and called out last-minute reminders of a cello recital and a rugby match during the week. Greg assured them he would miss neither _, no matter what, no, not even for work, I’ll see you then._

Once the door was shut behind the kids, Greg inhaled deeply and forever, exhaled hard and fast. “I love them, they exhaust me.”

John sank onto the sofa, patted the cushion beside him as he reached for the television remote and switched on the set.

“Beer?” Greg offered.

“Thanks, I’m good.”

Greg didn’t get one for himself either—instead assumed the seat beside John, and John’s hand went automatically to rest on his leg, stroking the inside of his thigh just above the knee. John stepped through channel after channel, eventually stopped on an old black-and-white movie.

“Five after five,” Greg ventured, and stretched his arm across the back of the sofa.

“Thank Christ,” John huffed, and they both cracked smiles and instantly they were shifting toward each other—Greg’s hand at the back of John’s head, John’s fingers digging hard at the inseam of Greg’s jeans, mouths open to each other, television forgotten, tongues battling for pride of place inside each other’s mouths.

Greg shoved his hand up under John’s pullover, stroked up his side, making him jump, ticklish, and found the ring of wiry hair surrounding his nipple, gripped the tips of a few strands between his fingertips and pulled. John sucked his teeth and then caught Greg’s bottom lip between them, worrying it, pulling, then closing his lips around it and sucking.  Blunt fingers closed around John’s nipple, twisted and held, then tugged, and then tugged again.

John grunted into Greg’s mouth as John set his hand high up on the inside of Greg’s thigh and pulled hard, spreading Greg’s thighs wider so he could knead and cup Greg’s bollocks through his jeans. Pressing up to meet John’s hand, Greg muttered, “ _Fuck_. . .”

“Love to,” John grinned against Greg’s lips, and then went after them again with thrusting, curling tongue and sharp-edged teeth.

 “Mm, bedroom,” Greg said then, and led John by the hand down the hallway past the loo and the kids’ rooms to either side, through the door to his room with its neatly made-up bed with a orderly row of shoes tucked beneath the edge at its foot. He turned on the light, left the door open, and grabbed John by the hips, pulled him close, ground them together as his open mouth sought John’s again. John obliged, kissing hard and clutching at Greg’s arse, circling his pelvis as he pressed ever forward.

As was usually the case, undressing each other bordered on violence—tugging, grasping, teeth dragging along exposed throats, hands shoved into open shirt fronts and beneath waistbands as if staking claims of ownership to each other’s bodies. A button flew from Greg’s shirtfront in John’s impatience to free him from it, and he closed his wet mouth around Greg’s nipple in lieu of an apology, flicking his tongue-tip quick and hard up and down against it until Greg groaned and balled up John’s shirt sleeve in his fist. His hand slid down John’s back, fingers digging and scrabbling, then rucked John’s shirt up relentlessly until John pulled back, trailing saliva from Greg’s chest to his bottom lip, and the pullover went up and off and Greg tossed it partway across the room.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that?” John huffed out, and swiped his tongue along the side of Greg’s throat, down, then up, and he shout-whispered into his ear, “I’ve been thinking all day about getting my hands on your prick.”

“Yeah?”

“You know I have.” John closed his teeth on Greg’s earlobe— _hard_ —and pulled. His hands went at the button and zip on Greg’s jeans, and Greg shoved him away, unfastened them quick and shoved them down his legs, letting them pool at his ankles. John’s eager fingers traced his length, half-hard and pointing straight up inside tight boxer-briefs, pinched the head of his prick through the knit fabric. Greg sucked in a heavy breath and steadied himself with hands at John’s waist and shoulder. John’s breath was hot and damp against Greg’s throat as he said, “Don’t know which I want more: to make you come in my fist, or for you to make me come in yours.” His hand slipped down to palm Greg’s bollocks through his pants, curving his fingers around, squeezing, rolling.

“Jesus,” Greg bit out, and John traced up his length again, feeling his prick was fuller now, nearly there.

“Let me,” John huffed, and crowded Greg backward until his knees hit the edge of the mattress and he sat. John persuaded him back to recline against the pillows, and knelt next to the outside of Greg’s knee, licked his lips messily as he hooked two fingers into each side of Greg’s pants and started to shift them down; Greg planted his feet and lifted his hips, and John tugged them down just past his knees. “Getting there,” John said quietly, and gave a dirty smile. “I’m going to make you so fucking hard.”

Greg tipped his chin, indicating. “So quit talking and get to it,” he demanded, and John steadied the base of his prick with one hand flat against his body, propping him up between thumb and forefinger, and lowered his mouth to a spot just above it, his cheek pressed against the back of his own hand. With lips and tongue, John worked his way slowly up along the underside of Greg’s cock, humming as he went, being generous with spit, lingering now and then, doubling back, then quick-sliding up. Fingernails burrowing and lightly scratching, combing through the much-darker hair at the base of Greg’s cock, John wended his way toward the thick crown, teasingly flicking his tongue-tip across the sweet spot just beneath and behind it.

“Jesus, that’s good,” Greg huffed, and his fingers raked the wrong way through John’s hair. In a cunning, swift single motion, John closed his lips around the head of Greg’s now fully-hard cock, rolled his tongue, and hummed agreement, drawing a quick moan from Greg in response. He sucked, then worked his tongue beneath the edge of Greg’s foreskin, making him nearly shout, and grasp at John’s shoulder, curling forward so his shoulders came up off the piled-up pillows.

John hummed again, a long, low, “ _Mm-hmmm_. . .” and Greg gasped hard. His hand came to rest heavily on the back of John’s head, and his hips began to roll, pushing up greedily into the heat of John’s mouth. John let him, but not for long. When he pulled away suddenly, breaking a trail of spit with a swipe of the back of his hand across his lips, Greg growled a protest. “ _Unh-uh_ ,” John scolded. “You know it goes my way or not at all.”

Greg’s expression set like he was spoiling for a fight, and he clamped his hand around John’s jaw, dragged him forward so he had no choice but to follow, bracing himself with his hands on the headboard above Greg’s shoulders. The fond smile that flashed across Greg’s face as John settled gave him away utterly before Greg rearranged his face into something harder-edged. “Won’t let me fuck your mouth? You should give me your arse as a consolation prize.”

John rose up on his knees, straddling Greg’s thighs so their cocks brushed each other, and he shook his head. “Nope,” he said good-naturedly. They’d already talked it through.

“I think about it, though.”

“Think all you want,” John told him pleasantly, and leaned aside to fumble a plastic bottle of slick out of the bedside table’s little drawer. He sat back, arse resting on Greg’s thighs, and drizzled a long, generous stream of the minty-smelling slippery into his left palm. Greg’s hands stroked up and down John’s chest, flicking John’s nipples with the edges of his fingernails, then pinching them rhythmically as John walked his knees up until he could easily line up their pricks.

“I could press you right up against that wall there,” Greg muttered through a dirty grin, tipping his head to indicate. “Catch your knee up over my arm, finger your hole with some of that stuff.” Another head-tilt, this time toward the palmful of slick John was working onto his fingertips and thumb. John looked skeptical.

“I’d push you off in no time, old man,” he teased.

“Not your _back_ to the wall,” Greg clarified.

John leaned forward with his not-slippery hand gripping the headboard again, and buried his face gratefully in the curve of Greg’s neck and shoulder. “What, like, _Up Against The Wall And Spread’em_?”

“Yeah,” Greg huffed, and dug his fingertips in at either side of John’s spine, roughly massaging first one spot, then another, moving down. “Pin the side of your face to the wall with my mouth at the back of your neck.” He raised one hand to briefly squeeze the back of John’s neck, demonstrating, then went back to kneading fingertips down his back. John caught up both their cocks—barely, they were both blessed with extraordinary girth—in his slick fist and leaned, adjusting the angle of his hips, pinning Greg’s cock against his body so John could rut against it. They both groaned as John began to fuck the length of Greg’s cock in earnest, and John less-than-gently worked his teeth against the cabled edge of muscle sloping from Greg’s neck to his shoulder. “I’d love to hear the noises you make as I push my fingers inside you,” Greg muttered, close to John’s ear.

Greg’s hips rolled vaguely but he was largely held fast by the weight of John straddling him, pressing in and up as he rutted his straining cock along the underside of Greg’s generous girth. “You’re a bad man, Detective Inspector,” John encouraged, feeding the fantasy and prompting Greg to go on with it. He dragged his lips sideways, slurping some of his own left-behind saliva as he went, fixing his open mouth low on Greg’s neck; Greg tilted his head to make space as John started to suck, trying to raise a bruise.

“God, so hot,” Greg sighed out, and his hands groped down to just above John’s arse as he went on imagining his fingers working inside John, readying him. “So tight. I know you’d curse and complain but you’d be moaning for my prick by the time I’d got you open for me.” John obliged by pulling away from Greg’s throat long enough to let out a couple of upward-pitched, needy moans, nearly whining. “ _Fuck_!” Greg exclaimed, and clamped his hands tight on the twin mounds of John’s arse, clenching and relaxing as John worked his cock up beneath the bridge of his slicked-up hand, against Greg’s throbbing prick.

John fucked harder, a bit faster, and his breath was coming too forcefully for him to go on sucking his love bite onto Greg’s throat, so he settled his forehead on Greg’s shoulder, looked down between their bodies at his cock sliding against Greg’s. “Go on, then,” John urged.

Greg didn’t go on immediately, instead pulled hard on John’s hips and arse, encouraging him to rut as he liked, and Greg worked to rise up to counter it, ducked his head looking for John until John came up to meet him in a messy, hot kiss, both moaning, breaking apart to catch their breath, teeth and tongues and stubble-roughened lips and chins. Greg growled frustration, reached down to try moving John’s hand to give him room to move, but John wouldn’t be dissuaded.

“Talk me off,” John demanded. “Make me come.” His movements became desperate, jerky, hard forward motion as he fucked up against Greg’s cock, dripping with slick and sweat and John’s leaking pre-cum.

Greg let his head fall back, and his eyes closed. He shifted his hands, his fingertips sliding into the cleft of John’s arse, tugging, squeezing, pulling him open then letting him go, and John kept up a quick, urgent rhythm, now grunting with each thrust. “I’d lean hard against your back with my shoulder, keep you still and steady while I got my cock out, so hard, listening to you moan for me.”

“Oh fuck yeah,” John huffed.

“I’d tell you to pull your prick, I want you to come. . .” Greg lowered his head so his mouth was close to John’s ear. “Come for me,” he urged. “Fucking _come_ for me.” A sloppy string of babble now, John was close and Greg was desperate for more room to move the way he wanted, to get himself off. “I want to fuck you. I want you to come _so hard_ for me.”

John rutted hard through a few more strokes, his sweating palm slipping down the headboard and his chest collapsing forward onto Greg’s upper arm and shoulder, then all at once he shuddered, and shouted, and then whimpered high in his throat, and Greg muttered encouragement, still gripping him by the arse, pulling him closer, pressing his fingers between John’s arse cheeks, kneading and prodding.

Once John’s shuddering ceased, Greg nuzzled up close to his ear, grabbed the lobe between his teeth briefly, then muttered. “Now me.” In a sudden flurry of motion, they rolled and shifted until their places were reversed, John prone on his back, and Greg drew John’s calves up onto his shoulders, licked his fingers and palm messily before taking both their pricks in the wide circle of his fist. Immediately, Greg was rocking hard against John’s still-mostly-hard cock, bracing himself with his other hand flat on the bed beside John’s chest.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” John practically spat, and his hands were everywhere: behind Greg’s neck, down his throat, stroking his biceps, abrading his nipples, sliding down the sweat of his back. Greg rocked in steady rhythm, midtempo thrusts forward along the length of John’s prick, slow slides back. “Think about me pinned there,” John commanded, “open for you, pulling myself, coming for you.”

“ _Jeez-us_ ,” Greg cursed, eyes squeezing shut.

“Your cock just there, pushing into me,” John murmured gamely, and reached down to wrap his fingers around Greg’s hand as his own softening cock slipped from Greg’s grip, not guiding but following as Greg jerked his prick. “ _Tell me_.”

“Fuck. John.”

“Tell me.”

“Fuck, I want to shove my cock inside you, so tight—“

“Yeah.”

“—so fucking hot, and I’d fuck you hard and quick and you’d rock back against me, fucking yourself on my cock.”

“Yeah,” John encouraged. “I love your fat cock. I want it.” John could sense Greg was reaching the crest of his wave, tightened his hand around Greg’s, felt Greg’s fingers squeezing and releasing as they slid along his length, quick and light near the crown, then down again. “You want to fuck me? Fuck me hard?”

“Oh fuck yeah. . .”

“Show me.”

Greg fucked hard into his fist, and John’s, and John leaned up to kiss the corner of his open, panting mouth, and when John sank back onto the pillows Greg clenched his teeth and hissed through them.  “Oh, that’s it, _yeah_ , I want to fuck you. . . _fuck_ you. . .fuck you, oh _Christ_.”

Greg’s come landed in thick, hot streaks across John’s belly, pooling in his navel, coating the hairs that traced a trail all the way down to his prick, and Greg let out a long, low groan, fell away onto his side next to John, lazily tracing his fingertips through his spend before it turned sticky.

“Dirty bastard,” John scolded, his abdomen jumping in response to the ticklish feel of cooling spunk being fingerpainted across his belly.

“I do think about it, you know,” Greg said, almost thoughtfully, through quieting breath.

“Keep on thinking it, I’m afraid,” John replied, and turned his head to catch Greg’s lips between his own. “Of course, I think about doing it to you, too.”

“Yeah, well,” Greg grinned, and let John mop them up with his discarded pullover, while Greg kicked off the jeans and pants still tangled around his calves and ankles. They settled back, side by side, arms and hands touching.

At length, John said quietly, to the ceiling. “Well, maybe just. . .” and he traced the length of Greg’s index finger with his own finger and thumb.

“Yeah?” Greg asked, not too eagerly, but just a bit eagerly.

John turned and kissed him quick, resettled himself on his side to look at Greg in profile, throwing an arm over his chest.

John grinned, despite himself. “Only saying _maybe_.”

Greg lay his hand atop John’s. After a long moment, his face broke into a wide grin and he teased, “Chicken.”

“ _Don’t_.” John warned, and kissed Greg’s shoulder.

“Turnabout’s fair play, of course,” Greg clarified. “For wee little chickens like you.”

“Fuck you.” John bit his shoulder, laughing.

Greg threw both hands up in a helpless gesture. “Yes, as I’ve just said!”

 

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: FuckYeahFightLock  
> twitter: @FicAuthorPoppy


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